


don't touch winter

by Nordyr



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 22:38:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13421097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nordyr/pseuds/Nordyr
Summary: “No, no, no,” Clarke bites out to the stranger. “What do you think you’re doing?”“I’m… shoveling snow?”Clarke likes her snow.Lexa doesn’t know clearing the sidewalk in front of Clarke’s house is a bad idea.





	don't touch winter

**Author's Note:**

> So I am totally working on both a larger AU fic and a canon one, but in the meantime here’s another one-shot to fill the void. I wanted to post this before the season was over - please excuse Clarke’s obsession with winter.  
> Cheers.

Winter is a time of warmth to Clarke. 

(Contradictory - she knows.) 

When her toes burn cold and her fingers go numb only to burst into tingling flames when she goes back inside, trembling with the effort to keep pencils and paintbrushes steady, her cheeks colored by an icy hue, that is when she feels content.

The neighborhood is a white innocence and the streets look, for lack of a better word, cozy in a layer of snow. Even with the chilling air that forces scarves and hats onto the people and bites into every inch of exposed skin, it’s the most peaceful look Clarke has seen the world wear.

Untouched and quiet, raw beauty that she can never replicate with graphite pencils. 

(Still, she tries.) 

 

On this year’s second day of snow, she wakes up with cold feet under the covers. The smell of winter is a particular one: cold, clean water trying to wash away anything tainted, and somehow it’s managed to seep through the closed window and into her bedroom, too.

She curls her legs closer to her body, tugs the blanket tighter over her shoulder and smiles contently with her eyes still closed. 

Her thoughts drift and she wonders if maybe she should just move to a colder country, somewhere up north where the world is always muted by a layer of snow. Realistically, she knows that’s a whole different environment and that it wouldn’t increase her happiness as much as she imagines, but it’s 8 AM on a winter’s morning and no one’s going to stop her from dreaming.

The people would be great – her sleep drunk mind imagines them somewhat as friendly, bearded Eskimos with sled dogs that resemble polar bears – and she’d get to wear hoodies and warm, fluffy socks every day. 

She’d drink loads of hot cocoa and mulled wine, and she’d have an even larger collection of different earmuffs. And in the mornings she would wake to the soft, crunching footsteps of a neighbor walking their dog, or a truck slowly rolling over the white road, or-- someone shoveling snow.

Someone shoveling snow with the distinct scrape of hard plastic against the sidewalk, very much like the one Clarke can hear right now.

She opens her eyes, because that was not just her overactive imagination.

 

She tiptoes to her bedroom window, ignoring the cold floor underneath her feet, and peeks through the blinds. Sure enough, a jacket covered and beanie wearing figure is clearing the sidewalk. 

Clarke narrows her eyes. The path in front of the neighbor’s house is already snow-free, and she holds her breath as the snow shoveling figure pauses, stretching their muscles, before continuing their work down the sidewalk. Right in front of Clarke’s house.

Oh no.

Nope, nope. 

Clarke almost trips in her quick search for a sweater, cursing under her breath. She pulls on the first shirt she finds and hurries to the front door, shuffling her feet into the pair of slippers she finds on the way. 

 

The outside air is cold as it hits her face – much colder than she had expected or was prepared for – but that is of little importance right now. She hops through the path of snow from her front door to the road, silently cringing at the messy footsteps she’s leaving across the once perfect blanket of winter.

“No, no, no,” Clarke bites out to the stranger who is carelessly shoveling another pile of snow from the sidewalk. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The snow shoveler – a girl, Clarke notices (a pretty girl, but she cannot let such trivial things distract her from the issue) – startles for a moment. “I’m… shoveling snow?”

“That’s my snow. You’re on private property.”

The girl leans a little onto the shovel and looks around, confused. “I thought this was a public street.”

“Yeah,” Clarke huffs, “but that is my sidewalk. As you can see, it’s obviously in front of my house.”

Slowly and barely noticeable, the girl smiles a little. “I see. Would you like me to skip this part in front of your house?”

“Well, you already ruined it now,” Clarke scoffs, nodding at the clean patch of pavement.

“That’s okay,” the girl says, picking up the shovel again, “I can fix it.”

She sticks the shovel into a pile of snow on the side of the road and spreads it over the pavement in question, messy and crumbling, in front of Clarke’s feet.

“That looks nothing like fresh snow,” Clarke mumbles with a glance down – which makes her painfully aware of the fluffy, pink slippers she’s wearing. 

(Bunny ears and _Raven, why would you buy me this_ and the unexpected fluffiness that secretly made Clarke wear them around the house anyway because they were _so soft._ )

She schools her face into stubbornness again, determined to not let this decrease her air of seriousness.

The other girl hums, leaning on her shovel once more. 

“Would you like me to clear it up again?” she asks, curiously eyeing Clarke’s Christmas sweater – _where my ho’s at_ – and Clarke’s cheeks burn a little.

Now this is definitely decreasing her air of seriousness.

Clarke scoffs, trying to ignore how childish she’s feeling. “Do you always make your work harder for yourself?”

The girl shrugs. “No. Then again, people usually don’t mind me clearing the sidewalk.”

Clarke looks away in annoyance. Her response is a grumpy, quiet confession. “I like snow.”

The girl nods solemnly and Clarke would think she’s being made fun of if it weren’t for the earnest look in the girl’s eyes. “And I can appreciate that. Most people consider snow an inconvenience, an obstacle. They’re so focused on the interruption of their daily routine that they fail to see its beauty.”

The tension in Clarke’s jaw eases. She takes a moment to inspect the girl’s face more carefully, notices stray snowflakes in the dark curls spilling out from under her beanie, and frowns in thought. “Are you my neighbor?”

“No. Part time winter job.” 

“Oh.” Guilt creeps onto Clarke’s shoulders. The girl was only doing her job; not trying to be an annoying neighbor or snow-free activist, but just doing her job. 

Her breath puffs clouds and Clarke contemplates apologizing.

The sound of a car passing by interrupts them, humming and loud in the early morning, crunching heavily over the snowy road. It’s a noisy reminder that the world is slowly waking up, and both of them watch the car pass by in silence. 

Eventually, it turns the corner and leaves the two of them alone in the slumbering neighborhood again.

Before Clarke has the chance to continue their conversation, the other girl has picked up her shovel and is moving further down the street.

“I’ll skip your sidewalk. I’m sorry about your snow…” The girl cranes her neck and takes a moment to read the mailbox. “Griffin.”

Clarke watches her walk off, a little dazed and a little frozen – she blames both on the cold. 

 

(But the girl walks across the white pavement, a lonely and serene figure in the quiet morning, with her back to Clarke and a snow shovel in her hand. It’s a perfect picture and Clarke’s fingers itch for a pencil; landscapes and winter gardens and snow-covered streets momentarily forgotten.)

 

“Clarke,” she eventually throws after the girl, who looks back over her shoulder. “It’s Clarke. My name.”

The snow shoveler nods, gives her a smile. “Sorry about your snow, Clarke.”

 

//

 

The microwave dings. 

Hot chocolate is not a proper breakfast and Clarke knows this.

She also doesn’t care.

The first sip is heavenly and (according to Clarke) sacred, because one does not drink hot cocoa unless there’s snow outside.

She sits curled up near the windowsill, a blanket covering her legs and the TV on a low murmur. Heavy snowflakes are falling outside, sticking to the window in detailed patterns. The front yard has once more been covered in a fresh layer of snow and even the sidewalk has turned white again. It’s beautiful, but considering this morning, guilt inducing. 

Across the street, Clarke can see the girl with the shovel still working, unfazed and ignoring the snowfall. 

And the snowfall is heavy.

Surely the girl must know her work is futile like this; every inch that she clears is covered in snow again only moments later, the sidewalk in front of Clarke’s house being proof of that. Meanwhile, the frost on the window is not showing any signs of melting, and Clarke frowns in worry.

It is terribly cold outside and she knows the snow shoveler does not live in the neighborhood. The girl isn’t able to just go home and wait it out like anyone else. Besides, Clarke has no idea if snow shovelers are hired for specific work hours.

Overall, it’s just very disturbing to think that the girl she got upset with has been out in the cold for many hours and is now doing an endless job of shoveling snow, while Clarke is warm and comfortable and drinking hot cocoa inside.

She pouts a little in contemplation, but the decision is easily made.

 

(After all, she’s not a heartless person.)

 

(And the girl is very pretty.)

 

// 

 

The second time Clarke heads out the front door that morning, it’s not any warmer outside. Snowflakes drizzle onto her cheeks, get caught in her hair. She fights the urge to catch a few on her tongue (she’s too old to be _seen_ doing such things) and makes her way to the girl across the street.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” Clarke tells her as she nears, hands tucked under her armpits and hugging herself tightly to keep warm. 

She tries to catch the girl’s eyes, but the snow shoveler keeps them stubbornly on the pavement she’s clearing. 

Clarke shrugs, watches the girl work. “Thinking about it now, it was a stupid thing to get upset about. I knew it was going to snow again later today so I had nothing to worry about, really.”

Still, the girl ignores her.

Which is starting to get rude, if Clarke may say. 

She steps a little further into the girl’s space, about to demand at least an acknowledgement, when the girl suddenly turns to her, clearly startled. 

She fumbles a hand under her beanie and takes out an earbud. “Hi.” 

Clarke stands there speechless for a moment, letting the situation fall into place and figuring out how to proceed.

“Please tell me this isn’t also your sidewalk,” the girl says as she takes out the other earbud too, and Clarke smiles at the hidden fear in her voice.

“No, I was just-” She hesitates, stumbles over her words a little. Gives up on the train of thought and shakes her head. “Do you… Do you want to come inside?”

The girl considers it with a look at the sky as if it holds the answer, a grimace against the falling snowflakes. 

Clarke shrugs. “You’re kind of doing twice the work here.”

“I suppose so,” the girl admits, a crack in her stoic face as she smiles a little. “I should probably learn to check the weather forecast before going to work.”

Clarke grins. “That might be a good idea.”

Tugging on her fingerless gloves, the girl’s cheeks are tinted red – and Clarke can’t tell if that’s because of the cold or because of some other reason. 

She wonders then if her own cheeks are pink, too. They feel oddly warm, considering the winter breeze around them.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you earlier.”

“You didn’t yell,” the girl corrects.

“I’m sorry anyway,” Clarke shrugs. She digs the nose of her boot against the ground. “I was hoping I could offer you a cup of hot chocolate to make up for it.”

 

//

 

It’s 10 AM by the time the girl is wiping her feet on Clarke’s doormat and shrugging off her coat, small remnants of snow falling to the floor. The inside temperature is a big contrast and it immediately flushes the tips of their cold ears.

“You know, I never caught your name,” Clarke mentions. She steps out of the slippers she’d been wearing ( _not_ the pink, fluffy ones this time) and heads in the direction of the kitchen.

“It’s Lexa,” the girl answers, untying her boots on the doormat.

_Lexa,_ Clarke thinks, looks much smaller without her winter coat and snow boots. Much more fragile somehow, like the strength she uses to spend hours shoveling snow is hidden carefully in her lean figure. 

Clarke busies herself with getting their drinks and Lexa patiently waits, her eyes following Clarke’s movements. Clarke manages to spill the chocolate milk twice, Lexa’s gaze heavy on her figure and making her ears burn, before she has made them both a cup of hot chocolate.

(Clarke may or may not let their fingers brush on purpose as she hands Lexa hers.) 

 

They settle on the couch near the window with their hands wrapped around their mugs and a silence that is not yet uncomfortable. 

“Doesn’t look like it’s clearing up soon,” Clarke mumbles, glancing at the unrelenting snowfall outside.

Lexa hums something in acknowledgement, not seeming too bothered by it. She takes a sip of her steaming drink and for a moment Clarke fears the girl will burn her tongue. 

“This is great,” Lexa hums instead, the sip of hot cocoa leaving a smudge above her upper lip that she’s quick to wipe away. “Thank you for this.”

The girl seems to have a way of smiling that is more present in her eyes than on her lips. Clarke is oddly endeared by it. 

“Thank you for keeping our street snow-free,” she replies, reaching for the box of marshmallows on the coffee table and popping one in her mouth, a few more in her drink.

Lexa quirks an eyebrow. “So it’s a good thing now?”

“It _does_ prevent me from slipping on the sidewalk,” Clarke admits with a shrug, “so I guess it’s not totally useless.”

Lexa hums a chuckle and Clarke feels something warm in her stomach. She forces herself to tear her eyes away and looks down into her cup instead, twirls the marshmallows in her drink around with a teaspoon. 

“Have you been doing this job for long?”

“No, this is my first year, actually,” Lexa admits, studying her own drink, “and I have no idea if I’m allowed to go inside people’s homes while on the job.”

Clarke grins guiltily. “I’m not going to get you fired, am I?”

Lexa smiles, shrugs. “That’d be worth it.”

She raises her cup and takes a sip, and Clarke can’t tell if Lexa was speaking of her drink or of something else.

(To be fair, Clarke knows she makes a killer cup of hot chocolate, so that’s probably it.)

 

They fall into a comfortable silence again. Lexa seems to be content with watching the snow fall through the window and Clarke studies the other girl over the rim of her cup. 

Lexa’s cheeks are still a little rosy and her lips are chapped – not broken, but roughened by the cold – and Clarke’s gaze unconsciously lingers there for a while. 

And if Clarke had not yet realized she is incredibly attracted to this girl, the rush of heat to her cheeks as Lexa’s tongue peeks out to lick traces of hot chocolate from her lips surely makes that clear.

But Clarke is not going to make Lexa uncomfortable. She’s trying to be a good host here. So she blinks herself out of it, takes a sip from her hot cocoa.

A brief silence, and then Lexa offers, “I like your shirt.”

Clarke, rather glad for the distraction and still wearing the same ridiculous sweater as before, groans a chuckle in embarrassment. “It’s… not the first impression I had wanted to make.”

Lexa’s grin is subtle. She absentmindedly runs a thumb over the handle of her cup. “I could say the same thing. I’m the girl who ruined your sidewalk – that can’t be a great first impression.”

“It wasn’t,” Clarke admits. She smiles and bites her lip at the reminder. “But don’t worry about it. I already think a lot better of you now.”

“You do?” A corner of Lexa’s mouth lifts as she catches her eyes.

“I do,” Clarke replies honestly. 

 

(Sometime this morning Clarke had thought this girl was the destroyer of all things beautiful, the thorn in winter’s side, the bane of her inspiration and other things dramatically horrible – but she’s starting to get convinced she’s never been more wrong in her life.) 

 

 

They talk until their cups are empty on the coffee table. It comes natural, with Clarke grinning and the side of Lexa’s mouth lifting up every few moments. At some point Clarke makes a remark about Lexa’s socks – colorful and fluffy, keeping her toes warm in the cold – and accentuates it with a touch of her foot to Lexa’s. 

It stays there for the rest of their conversation, occasionally brushing their feet together, and Clarke’s chest flutters a little at the fact that Lexa doesn’t pull back.

 

Clarke is not sure how long they sit there, huddled on her couch and somehow sitting closer to each other than they started out with. She watches Lexa throw her hair over one shoulder and tells herself to stop staring, to ask the girl if she wants more hot chocolate or to tell a stupid story about that time she ate too many marshmallows.

(But Clarke’s eyes have scanned the contours of Lexa’s face, taken in the details with artistic appreciation and now she is curious; curious if Lexa’s cheeks would feel soft under her fingertips, if the tip of her nose would still be tainted by winter’s coldness and icy against her own, if her lips would taste like warm chocolate-)

“Clarke?”

“Hm?” Dazed, she pulls her eyes from where they had been lingering on Lexa’s lips. 

Lexa’s gaze is soft. “It has stopped snowing.”

“Oh.” 

It takes Clarke a few moments to realize what that means. 

“Then I guess you should get back to work.”

“I should.”

Clarke nods, but neither of them make a move to get up. 

“Thank you again.” Lexa’s gaze drops for a moment, lingering somewhere on Clarke’s collarbone before meeting her eyes again. “Is there any way I could repay you?”

Clarke considers saying, _don’t touch the snow on my sidewalk again,_ but the joke feels too cold for the way Lexa is looking at her. Too cold for the moment that is somehow very warm; warm enough to make her hands clammy. She shakes her head instead. “No need.”

Lexa’s eyes linger on her for a moment. Then she nods, gets ready to stand up, and Clarke feels like something’s slipping away. 

It only takes a split second for her to take the jump. 

“Wait.” Clarke’s hand shoots out to Lexa’s wrist before the girl can get up. She hesitates briefly. “Or maybe you could go on a date with me sometime.” 

When Lexa smiles, something frees in Clarke’s chest.

 

 

Later that day, after the sidewalks have been cleared and the streetlights have come on, Lexa comes back. 

They have takeout food with red wine and their feet touching under Clarke’s dinner table; and the supposedly final kiss they share on Clarke’s doorstep lasts long enough for Clarke to get cold and pull the both of them back inside. 

 

//

 

On a good day, Clarke Griffin draws bare trees and snowy meadows and other things in gray pencil. Winter has always brought out the best of her artistic inspiration and this year is no exception.

This year, she draws snowy sidewalks and frosty windows and a faded, serene figure that blends into all of it, carrying a snow shovel and – according to Clarke – more beauty than winter ever has.


End file.
